


A Coffee Shop AU Is Definitely What The Bartimaeus Trilogy Needed

by uwhatson



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Gen, Seattle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6094411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwhatson/pseuds/uwhatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fic for a Bartimaeus coffee shop AU set in Seattle. Graphics and additional descriptions found <a href="http://watsonimholmes.tumblr.com/tagged/coffee-shop-au">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soulless Corporate Branch Manager Struggling To Find A Conscience

“You know,” Nathaniel said, “you’re going to get lung cancer.” Kicking the door shut behind him, he barely avoided a cascade of the neat black briefcase, recently upgraded iPad, half-filled travel mug, and two-foot stack of manila file folders he was holding. He couldn’t see anything in the dark apartment except B’s black outline against the city lights and the cigarette burning orange at the tip.

“Yeah, my once-a-year habit is gonna send me into an early grave,” B said, before turning away from the view to give Nathaniel a once over. Presumably B was checking whether he’d gotten any less disappointing in the couple months since they’d last been face to face—a regular inspection which he always failed to pass.

Frowning, Nathaniel flicked on the kitchen lights and let his poorly maintained balancing act spill across the counter. He really needed to add this date into his calendar—or get Piper to do it, anyway. A cigarette-smoking B was the last thing he’d needed after today’s endless series of meetings with squabbling stockholders.

“I’m still not going to pay your hospital bills. And anyway, you’ll set off the fire alarm if you keep doing that with the windows closed.”

“I took the batteries out,” B said, with an expression that tacked on the unspoken _dumbass_. It would have been more effective without the accompanying squint of lost night vision.

“Well, that’s very safe and responsible.” Nathaniel opened the fridge, hoping it contained something better than the half empty mayo jar and wilted kale leaves it’d held the night before. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and he closed the door again with a sigh.

“What, did you fire Mrs. Kim?” B said, hopping up to sit on the countertop and dropping the finished cigarette in the sink.

“No, she is on _vacation_ , and I said I didn’t need a replacement housekeeper while she was gone. It’s not as if grocery shopping is that difficult.”

“… yeah, most people seem to manage it, but then I guess John Mandrake isn’t most people,” B said, intent on starting another cigarette with a sparking lighter. “Lots of boring salads, was that your plan?”

“I think it’s leftover from the smoothies she makes me.”

“Most people use spinach, Nat, not its burly older brother,” B said, and grinned as the lighter finally caught. “But then again, maybe your housekeeper not-so-secretly hates you too.”

“Ha ha.”

“Did you get any new scotch since last time?”

“You mean since last time when you drank the entire $200 bottle?”

“Hey hey, you helped, mister! I have recordings from that night, don’t forget. I’m sure Kitty Jones would be _very_ interested—”

“It’s on the top shelf behind the vodka, now shut up,” Nathaniel said, scooping up the scattered manila folders and heading over to the desk that took up half the living room wall.

“Great,” B said, and jumped down to start rummaging.

While B clinked glasses and slammed cupboard doors in the kitchen behind him, Nathaniel busied himself in spreading out the newest blueprints for Parliament’s up-and-coming drone model, as well as the latest technical specs.

“It’s Friday, what the fuck are you doing,” B said, just as Nathaniel’s laptop finished booting up.

“Being branch manager, what do you think,” Nathaniel replied, pressing his fingers over his eyes at the white-blue burn of his computer screen after a twelve-going-on-twenty-hour day.

“Your life is pathetic,” B said.

“Oh yeah, the hitchhiking petty thief definitely has me—” Nathaniel spun around saying, then stopped when he saw B letting a steady stream of scotch fall into the sink. “What are you _doing_?!”

B exhaled another cloud of smoke and placed the bottle back on the counter. “Pouring one out.”

“Pouring—what? No, no, pretty sure Ptolemy doesn’t get to be the recipient of _two hundred dollar scotch_ , B—”

“Want some?” B said, waving the bottle. “The more the merrier.”

“I—”

“Don’t be an asshole. Come on. Just try, for once.”

“I—god, you do this every year. You come here and you get plastered and make all my furniture smell like cigarettes and pour a hundred dollars of alcohol down the drain.”

 Nathaniel was expecting another sarcastic and semi-insulting response, but B didn’t say anything, watching him with eyes that always looked a lot older than the body they were in. Usually B reminded Nathaniel of the last few seconds before the first punch in a bar fight, keyed up too high and waiting for an excuse—but all B seemed now was tired.

Nathaniel drummed his fingers against his knee. He considered the uncomfortable-but-fashionable cut of his dress shirt, his too-tight polished leather shoes that he never seemed to have time to replace, the heavy weight of the Swiss watch on his wrist. He blinked a couple times, and, eventually, sighed.                                           

“Fine. Get me a glass,” he said, leaning over to start unlacing his shoes. “But don’t you dare fall asleep in my bed this time.”

B’s nose wrinkled, and then a grin appeared. “Hardly. You get very jabby with the elbows around 4 am.”

“God, you’re the worst,” Nathaniel muttered, shutting his laptop to the sound of B pouring an unreasonable amount of scotch for two glasses. “You’re the absolute worst.”


	2. Fed Up Barista Fueled By Futile Causes And Pure Rage

Kitty arrived at her second job with dripping hair plastered to her scalp and a stinging scrape up her shin bone—plus, she was thirty-two minutes late. The all-day downpour was responsible for the first, a driver in a hurry with no concern for bikers was responsible for the second, and Professor Button was responsible for the afterthought. The Frog was already full up for the afternoon, and Kitty had to limp acrobatically through standing-room-only customers to get herself behind the counter.

George tapped his watch and raised an eyebrow. “Got sidetracked setting fire to city hall, did we?”

“Ha ha,” Kitty said dutifully, patting down her hair with a couple of paper towels to try and stop the worst of the dripping before leaning over to look at her legs. “Almost got hit by a car, actually.”

George winced. “Sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Kitty said, wiping away what blood there was left. “See? Good as new.”

“If you say so,” George said, and turned his attention back to the grounds he’d been measuring out for the espresso machine.

The next couple hours passed in a blur of spilled coffee grounds, unnecessarily complicated drink orders, and near scalds from the steamer. Finally, as they were nearing 6 pm, Kitty looked up and saw no empty drink cups sitting on the ledge waiting to be filled, no customers in line, and even a few empty chairs scattered among the tables.

And then, she also saw… _him_.

“ _John Mandrake_ ,” she hissed.

This was also the point at which John Mandrake looked over from whatever he was doing—did B having him playing _Jenga?_ —and saw her glaring at him from over the top of the espresso machine.

His expression upon catching her eye could’ve been a nervous and tentative smile, but Kitty decided it was more likely smug triumph over the fact that she’d been too busy to notice him, which in turn meant she hadn’t been able to ruin his coffee order for the first time in five months. The stupid look on his face went nicely with his no doubt unnecessarily expensive suit and laughably gigantic watch.

“Can I have a five minute break now, please,” she snapped at George, who looked over from the register and shrugged.

“Be my guest,” he said, and didn’t even bother continuing to watch as she started to stomp her way across the room.

“So! How big a town can your latest missile utterly destroy, John Mandrake?” Kitty demanded, after grabbing the empty seat at his and B’s table and throwing herself in it.

“Having a good day, Kitty?” B said. She was still cautiously tapping Jenga blocks in the hopes of finding an easy mover.

“A horrible day,” Kitty replied, and turned her attention back to Mandrake, who was trying to look nonchalant while taking another sip of coffee. “Well?” she demanded.

“Our latest missile is still in early development stages, Kitty Jones. I would hardly share such details in an approved press release. I certainly wouldn’t hand them out to you.”

“Your turn,” B said, grinning around the side of the nervously swaying tower.

“This is ridiculous,” Mandrake said.

“I don’t care, you agreed – I win, you bail me out with zero whining next time I’m arrested. You win, I write this precious new code for your precious new missile.”

“B!” Kitty said. “You’re _helping_ him?”

“Hey, I _like_ having someone to bail me out of jail, Kitty. Also, I’ll win, don’t even worry about it.”

Kitty rolled her eyes. “Should you even be here, B? Didn’t you dine and ditch at Jabor’s across the street just last week?”

“I’m a master of disguise, it’s fine,” B said.

“She just means she can run really fast,” Mandrake said.

“Hey!”

“Your move,” Mandrake said, hands still frozen in midair as he waited for the tower to stop vibrating from its newest addition.

“Well, this has been fun, but—” Kitty began saying, then shoved her chair back across the floor.

“No, no, nonono—NO!” Mandrake said as the tower wobbled, tipped, and came cascading onto the tabletop.

“I have to get back to work,” Kitty said, and gave him her best customer service smile. “More coffee, anyone?”


	3. Wanderer And Low-Grade Criminal Who Is Super Cool Ask Anyone

B stood at the edge of the water with Kitty, freezing cold Puget Sound washing over their bare feet as they watched the sun come down over the Olympics. Further up the beach were a few raging bonfires, but most of the fire pits at Golden Gardens were empty, probably because it was still March.

Needless to say, B’s feet were already painfully approaching freezing temperatures, but tradition was tradition and besides, complete and total numbness would soon set in and take care of the problem.

“Where’s Nathaniel, anyway?” Kitty said, sinking her face further into the huge scarf wrapped around her neck and blinking into the golden sunlight

“On a date,” B said, and cast a look Kitty’s way. He’d been waiting for the question since arriving at the beach with one less soulless corporate branch manager than Kitty had been led to expect. This new slip in Kitty’s personal standards was, admittedly, horrifying, but the amusement B derived in watching her pretend it wasn’t happening was a marked consolation.

“Oh?” Kitty said, still staring at the sunset with rather more intensity than was truly required.

“Yep.”

B waited, the world’s most fascinating sunset still the apparent focus of Kitty’s attention.

“I don’t suppose—well—do you know who with?”

“Jane.” B grinned. “Jane Farrar.”

“What?!” Kitty said, and finally turned her head to stare at him, mouth hanging open unbecomingly. “But—but she’s—she’s—”

“She’s what?”

“She kills people!”

B shrugged, and shoved his hands further into his coat pockets. “I was expecting something a little more expletive-loaded than a description of her job, but sure. Nothing wrong with accuracy.”

“Oh come on, you know what I mean!” B did, but he’d also waited hours to witness this minor emotional meltdown disguised as outraged moral objection. “She’s a—a vicious and vindictive enforcer of an elitist capitalist system who comes up with the most efficient way to kill people in developing countries with no means of defense!”

“Yes. She and Nat make quite the pair, don’t they?”

Kitty snapped her mouth shut, and turned back to glare out across the water.

“How long are you sticking around for this time?” she said eventually.

“Depends,” B said, with complete honesty. Plans were for the weak. And for people who owned day planners.

“On?”

“How quickly I get tired of Nathaniel’s bullshit. Especially if this Jane Farrar cow starts coming around, I should be hitting the road within a week.”

“I don’t imagine Nathaniel would _want_ to put you and Jane Farrar in close proximity,” Kitty pointed out.

“Mm? Oh, good point. Maybe I should show up unannounced at their next date, then.” B considered this, slowly and at length. “I can see Nat’s face now. Fan _tas_ tic. That’ll keep me smiling all the way to the eastern seaboard.”

“You’re heading east, then?”

B shrugged. “Spring and fall are the only bearable times to be in the Midwest. And I should reach Maine by summer, which is always, to my dismay, unbearably charming.”

“And _I’ve_ never even been to Portland,” Kitty said, voice muffled as she bent over to check her pants were still firmly rolled above her knees.

B frowned. “You could _try_ , you know.”

Hitchhiking and train hopping weren’t for everyone, but budget bus lines existed, as did rideshares. Couchsurfing and hostels were also a thing. Given that Kitty should already know all this, however, B hardly saw the point of mentioning it.

“I don’t have any _money_ , B. Or _time_ , because I’m too busy trying to _make_ money and also to get people to pay attention to the fact that Parliament is a cesspool of capitalist-fueled violence.”

B raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Tell us how you really feel,” he said, and shivered as a wave crested higher than expected on his exposed calves.

“Well, don’t _you_ get tired of it? How little people care?”

B sighed, trying to figure out a response that conversational steamroller Kitty Jones couldn’t simply misinterpret or ignore. “Yeah, see, that’s the difference—I _also_ do not care, so long as I can do what I want and live how I want without people interfering ‘for my own good.’”

“… B, you live by mooching and stealing things,” Kitty said, with an expression that indicated she was supremely unimpressed by this comeback.

“Okay, okay, _yeah_ ,” B said, “but only from people who can afford it! And ninety-eight percent of the time, that’s Nathaniel. And—and!” B gestured wildly in a manner meant to clearly indicate the entirety of the Western world. “If we had a system other than one which benefitted the very few and screwed over everyone else, maybe I could afford actually paying for things.”

Kitty continued to be unmoved. “B, you could pay for things _now_ if you just got a job. I bet Nathaniel would let you put your work for Parliament on a resume if you asked him.”

“Asked him?”

“Threatened him, maybe.”

B smiled at that, briefly. He looked back out at the mountains, now haloed in gold and pink, and shoved his hands back into his pockets. “You are very well-intentioned, Kitty. It’s… nice to see. But—you’re also still trying your best to fit into a world that isn’t making a space for you. And you can continue exhausting yourself in that struggle for the rest of your life, if you want. But I cut my losses years ago.”

“But if you actually _tried_ —”    

“No, nope, sorry, not happening,” B said in a tone of mild warning.

Kitty sighed, and fell silent. It was quiet for a while, and they listened to the waves rolling in, the seagulls crying up above, the bonfires roaring with orange flames up the beach.

Finally, Kitty said, “I know you said Maine is nice in summer, but—if you felt like coming back earlier… I mean. It’s just. Nathaniel gets very… _sad_ when you’re not around. And it gets very pathetic watching him try and hide it.”

B snorted, and glanced over at Kitty. She wasn’t looking at him, though, her eyes on the almost finished sunset instead. B shook his head, and turned his gaze on the blazing skyline as well.

“… okay. I’ll—okay, Kitty,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”


End file.
